Out of the Forest
by Enkidu07
Summary: Sam is sick. Dean can tell. There’s a tree in the forest. *Disclaimer: They don't belong to me!*


Out of the Forest

Sam is sick. Dean can tell. There's a tree in the forest.

Rated T because sometimes Dean is crude and it turns out Sammy has a mouth too.

Thanks for Mad Server for her Mad Beta Skills! Any and all remaining errors or inconsistencies are all mine.

Set early on in Season 1. The boys are learning to be brothers again and are fitting their pieces back together.

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"Fuck," Sam spat out, along with flecks of dirt and rogue tree bark.

"Ha, Sammy!" Dean snorted. "I always said you resembled a redwood - all trunk and limbs and now you're sprouting leaves!" Dean tempered his teasing by gently brushing pieces of bark and clumps of twigs from Sam's hair as he lumbered to his feet.

The forest spirit had gotten the drop on them and though Dean had quickly dispatched it, Sam had still garnered the rough end of the deal, being thrown from limb to limb of the possessed tree.

Eyeing the previously possessed tree suspiciously, Sam pushed away from it, effectively pulling away from Dean's ministrations at the same time.

"Fuck," he groaned this time, rethinking his harsh movements as his battered body made itself known, and he dropped back to the dry forest floor, delicately this time, to regroup. Leaning back against a tree, Sam eyed it warily and then dropped his head back to catch his breath.

Dean eyed his brother and not seeing any potential hemorrhaging or immediate danger, he gave Sam some space while he gathered up their tools.

"Up and at 'em, Sammy," he called a few minutes later. Lingering over repacking he had let Sam catch his breath but darkness was beginning to fall and if they waited much longer they were in danger of being caught out in the rapidly cooling night.

"Fuck," whispered Sam, caught up in his new mantra. "Just give me a blanket, Dean. Come back for me in the morning. Or, don't. I can just live here. It's nice. The trees have so much personality."

Dean gave the cursory chortle and squatted in preparation to manhandle his brother to his feet.

"Ugh. Get off me, dude. I got it." Sam pushed his brother away but not before Dean felt the unnatural heat radiating from him.

"You okay, Sam?" Dean asked gently.

"Fuck, Dean. I just got shaken around by an angry Ent. Do I look okay?" Sam deflected, focusing on current bumps and bruises, not yet ready to suffer Dean in his patented Sammy's-sick-and-I-will-needle-poke-and-tease-him-back-to-health-big-brother-mode.

"Well, suck it up and let's get the hell out of here, Tarzan. I'm cold. And hungry. And it looks like you're sporting some wood!" Dean laughed at his own ill placed humor.

Sam groaned, "Fuck me."

"I was thinking we could find some cute little waitress to help you out, but if you want to do it yourself…" Dean grinned evilly but in the meantime he had succeeded in getting Sam to his feet.

Sam shook him off again once he had a moderate semblance of stability. "God, Dean. Can it." Sam grumbled and pushed off towards the car. He stumbled briefly and the forest swam a little and then he found his bearings as Dean's hand settled on the small of his back.

Straightening his shoulders, Sam pushed ahead, pulling away from what he viewed as Dean's patronizing support.

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Thirty minutes later, Dean was starting to get a little worried as Sam stumbled for the fourth time. His hands itched to reach out and support him, but his respect for his brother's independence, or maybe his fear of being pushed away, took over and he settled on dogging his brother's steps in case things went south.

As far as Dean could tell from his limited exam, Sam had escaped his close-encounter-with-the-tree-kind relatively unscathed. A few scratches marred his cheek, the blood already drying where it had run down his jaw line, and a bruise was making itself known circling his right bicep, but none of the visible injuries accounted for his unbalance and dragging steps. He contented himself with the resolve to get to the bottom of it back at the motel and was taken by surprise when Sam's next stumble sent him crashing to his hands and knees.

"Shit, Sam," Dean spat, almost tripping over him as he went down unexpectedly in the dusky gloom.

Sam, seemingly alerted either by the fall or by the abrupt stop at the bottom, immediately started to push himself back up.

"Just stay down, Sam. What's wrong with you?" Dean subverted Sam's intentions of rising back to his feet by placing his hand on Sam's shoulder blade and then he crouched beside him as Sam stilled on his hands and knees and hung his head. "Sammy?"

"Just give me a second, Dean," Sam breathed out, eyes closed and catching his breath.

"Yeah," Dean agreed, pulling Sam around and helping him lean back against a tree. He almost laughed as Sam eyed the tree with trepidation. Almost. First he needed to assure himself about what was wrong with his partner. His little brother.

Sam leaned his head back against the tree, almost docile, until Dean pulled up his shirt to assess for any hidden injuries. Suddenly Sam's hands were pushing him away and he scooted further up against the tree. "Stop," he grumbled weakly. "Cold." Dean conceded but ran his hands over the outside of Sam's damp, hot t-shirt instead. Though he grumbled and wiggled back, the pressure didn't seem to cause Sam much additional pain.

Dean dropped his hands and rested his elbows on his knees but he continued to squat beside his subdued brother and looked him over intently. Sam finally opened his eyes and returned Dean's scrutiny with a bleary look.

"You sick, Sammy?" Dean finally asked, noting the dark circles standing out against Sam's pallid complexion.

"No. You're sick," Sam spat back, letting his head drop back against the rough bark and closing his eyes, answering Dean with his body language if not his words. "Personal space, dude," he added, flapping a shaky hand in Dean's general direction.

Dean sat back on his haunches, mentally reviewing that last couple of days to see if he had missed any signs that Sammy had been coming down with something.

Shit. Dean was bundled in a flannel shirt and leather jacket and Sam had been hunting all afternoon in a thin t-shirt. No wonder the kid was cold.

"Where's your jacket, Sam?" He asked now.

"Too hot," Sam muttered back, just moments after complaining of being too cold. Great. More evidence that Sam was brewing a nice little fever. Now if we could just add some muscle aches and some nausea Sam would be playing with a full out cold, or worse, flu. Fun for Sam. Even more fun for Dean who would be trapped in a hotel room with a bitchy little brother.

Dean was distracted from his irritated thoughts as a shiver wracked his brother's tall frame.

"Well, in about half an hour it is going to be fucking cold out here, so pull it together and let's get moving." Pretty sure that sympathy would not get his brother out of the forest, Dean opted for derision and firmly pulled his noncompliant brother to his feet.

"Move, Sam." He gave his brother a little push in the right direction and then watched as Sam rolled his shoulders as if trying to rid them of a deep stiffness. Muscle aches. Great.

Sam moved forward, wrapping his arms around himself and hunching against the evening chill. Slowly Dean moved in behind him, alert for another fall.

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Sam tried to stay more aware after his unexpected fall. Sure that Dean was growing annoyed at his endless weakness, he pushed himself forward a little too hard making his already screaming muscles burn. After a couple of days fighting a fever and the stupid aches and pains that accompanied this stupid cold he was no longer even able to figure out if he was too hot or if he was too cold. Staying Winchester-tough was draining. His body was crying out for some softness and warmth but all it got was the hard steel of the hunt.

Sleep. Sleep tonight and maybe he would be on the road to recovery. Or at least able to see straight.

Distracted by his thoughts, Sam didn't notice that his pace fell and that he increasingly closed in on himself to keep the shivers wracking his body at bay.

He was startled, therefore, when something came down over his shoulders from behind, his heart immediately throbbing in his throat as he ducked and whipped himself around in a belated defense.

"Whoa, slow down, Tiger," Dean said, startled at Sam's reaction.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked, bringing his breathing and heart rate back under control.

"Uhhh, it's a jacket? You're shaking like a tree in the wind." Dean snuffed at his own joke. _A tree. In the wind. Ha_. "Geez, jumpy much?" Dean muttered, feeing rebuked by Sam's surprised stare.

"That's your jacket, Dean," Sam said, stating the obvious.

"Yeah, and you're freezing, buddy, and at this rate we'll be out here all night."

"I'm fine, Dean."

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's petulance, but tried again. "Well, if you haven't noticed, I'm carrying all the gear and I'm hot. Least you could do is take the jacket."

Sam did a little eye rolling himself, giving the forest a little wave action through his fevered perception. _Smooth, Dean. God, can't you just be human, like a normal, well, human_? Sam thought begrudgingly to himself. Not ready to concede to the care that Dean refused to admit, he countered with, "God, give me the weapons bag. I carried the gear in,but if you need help getting it out, then hand it over."

Sam held his hand out for the bag, refusing to acknowledge it was shaking in the air. Dean stared at him for a few drawn out moments and then just as Sam thought he was going to give him the bag, he instead dropped the jacket into Sam's outstretched hand.

"Just put it on," Dean said as he brushed by and headed again for the car.

Sam stood with the jacket in his hand for a minute and then finally slid it over his shoulders. The ache across his back seemed to ease a little as the weight of the jacket settled over him. It was still warm from Dean's body heat and Sam wrapped it tightly around himself and stood still, breathing in the leather fragrance.

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Dean stopped and turned back to make sure that Sam followed him. He watched with amusement as Sam pulled his jacket tight and seemed to relax into it. Though the night was cool, watching Sam, he felt warmer than he had for the last hour.

"Sometime today, Sam?" he called back, worried that empathy right now would bring Sam to even more of a standstill.

Sam started at his words and started towards him. Dean let him catch up and then slid in behind him, letting Sam once again set a pace his fevered body could handle.

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After an epic hike through the cooling night, Dean was relieved to see the Impala come into view. Looking at his baby, she looked happy, her windows sparkling in the moonlight. Even Sam seemed to appreciate her allure as he caught her in his gaze and then leaned against her for a moment when he finally arrived.

Stashing the gear in the trunk, Dean observed Sam still leaning, now pressing his forehead against the cool metal roof. Pushing him gently aside he unlocked Sam's door and then backed up to give Sam space to climb in. Sam grumbled mildly throughout the process, but the angry tension from earlier seemed to have left him. Once Dean was sure that all of Sam's limbs were tucked in, he gently closed the door and rounded the car.

Now that they had reached their destination, Dean no longer felt the need to keep Sam motivated. He started the engine and settled as she purred for him. Knocking the heat onto high, he reached over Sam's static form, pulled the seatbelt around and clicked it into place. Sam, apparently feeling that his journey had come to an end as well, had essentially passed out as he hit the seat and barely grumbled as Dean ran a hand over his hot forehead and then pressed the back of his cool hand to Sam's flushed cheek.

"Just rest, my evergreen friend. Let's go home," Dean murmured.

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Though their job was finished and the plan had been to move on, Dean turned the car back to the motel. Based on Sam's rate of crashing, it looked like he was in desperate need of a warm bed and a few solid hours of sleep.

Periodically check on his brother, Dean expected him to settle during the ride, but instead Sam kept shifting restlessly, walking the hazy line between consciousness and restful oblivion. Watching Sam squirm in the seat and shift uncomfortably, Dean didn't know how to help him settle, so he just let him be.

Pulling into the hotel, Dean renewed their room and unloaded their gear before returning for Sam.

Quietly, Dean opened the car door and called to his brother.

"We're here Sam, let's move it inside."

Eyes still closed, Sam rolled his head towards Dean and mumbled, "Leave me here, I'm good in the car. Comfy."

"Come on Sammy, you're not staying out here, let's get inside."

Sam squinted against the interior light, "Shut the door, Dean, too bright!"

"Sam, you'll be more comfortable on a bed and I need to make sure you aren't hurt." Dean moved in, broaching Sam's his personal space, and attempted to hustle him to his feet.

"NO." Sam pushed out with more energy than Dean expected, successfully pushing Dean back.

"Why not, Sam? You can't stay out here, it's freezing."

"It's just better here, Dean. Better out here. In there…" Sam looked at Dean blearily and let his words trail off.

"In there, what, Sam? What's in there?" Dean asked, following Sam's gaze over his shoulder at the open rectangle of light emerging from their room.

"Nothing's in there, Dean. Nothing. Jess isn't in there." Sam's words came out as a whisper but succeeded in punching the air out of Dean.

Dean stayed crouched by the car door, eyes caught on his brother and he attempted to rein in his whirling thoughts.

"Jess always wanted to care of me when I was sick, Dean. I want Jess."

Reminding himself of his brother's rising fever, penchants for sleepless nights, and seemingly endless heartache, Dean pushed his own hurt feelings away and steadied his breathing. Finally he cleared his throat and, catching his brother's eyes, said evenly, "Jess isn't here, man, but I'm going to take care of you."

"I want Jess," his fevered brother whispered back.

Frustration growing, Dean grasped his brother's shoulder and started swinging his legs out of the car, "What'd Jess do when you were sick, Sam?"

"Well," he started, his fevered brow furrowed in thought, "she was… gentle."

"I'm gentle!" Dean retorted, his grip on Sam's shoulder and leg automatically lightening.

Sam's distant eyes turned to him. Dean was actually right. Considering how much power he had coiled in his broad chest and arms, he was surprisingly gentle. With Sam, anyway.

"She made me soup," Sam said, his eyes a little less distant.

"Soup. Check. I can get you soup." Dean answered confidently this time, succeeding in getting Sam's feet planted on the ground.

When Sam paused, he tried again. "Ready? Help me get you inside."

Sam kept staring. "She used to rub my back."

"Ha!" Dean spat out. Then he dropped his smirk as Sam's wounded glassy eyes met his and held on. "Huh. Well, I guess I can still probably handle that one too," he mumbled, shaking his head and dropping his gaze.

Dean shifted his hand around to the back of Sam's neck – gently, this time and brought his eyes back up to Sam's. "Let's go inside, Sam," he said quietly.

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Once Sam was _gently_ deposited onto the waiting bed, Dean hustled him up some sleep clothes and dug out the first aid kit.

Sam eyed him warily, squinting even in the dim lamplight and when Dean pulled out the thermometer, Sam burrowed his head under the pillow.

"What's wrong with you, Sam? Come out from under there and stop acting like you're friggin' five," Dean ordered, seriously confused by his brother's odd behavior. He remembered a pre-teen Sam becoming clingy and restless when he was sick, followed by an angry, inconsolable teen version, but he still wasn't sure what to make of this grown version of Sam's petulance.

"You said soup," came Sam's muffled response.

Dean shook his head at how effortlessly Sam slid from 'dangerous hunter' to 'little brother' and grinned at Sam's one-track mind. "Yeah, Sammy. I'll get you some soup. Any soup you want. Let me check you over first then you can rest while I go get it."

Unburrowing his brother's head, Dean _gently_ slid the thermometer into his ear. As Sam furrowed his brow and pulled away Dean curled his left hand along the other side of his brother's face, stabilizing him. Instead of pulling away harder, Sam leaned into Dean's touch, finally relaxing a little. Dean thumbed Sam's temple while he waited for the thermometer to beep and Sam's head grew even heavier as he sighed and sank into the touch.

"How long have you been sick, Sam?" Dean asked quietly, checking the thermometer reading – _101.9_.

"Couple days," came the mumbled, unguarded reply, "I'm okay, just need to rest for a second."

"Yeah, sure," Dean answered, expanding his thumb's route from Sam's temple to along his cheekbone to check for any tenderness or injury. His brought his right hand to Sam's head and felt gently through his hair for any hidden damage.

Sam sighed again, apparently unpained and comforted by the touch, his head still cradled in Dean's palm.

Not finding any evidence of damage, Dean pulled away to wet a cloth to clean out the shallow scratches on Sam's cheek.

As he removed his touch, Sam shifted restlessly again and mumbled, "I feel like I'm on a fucking boat. I wish the rocking would stop."

"Dizzy, Sam?" Dean asked, grabbing a bottle of water on his way back to the bed. If Sam had been fighting this fever for the last two days, he was probably dehydrated.

"Dizzy," Sam confirmed. "I want off the boat."

"Have some water instead, Sam?" Dean asked, pulling Sam up a little to drink. "Then I'll clean you up and you can sleep, okay?"

Sam cracked his eyes at Dean and mumbled "Soup!"

"I haven't forgotten about the soup, Sam! Geez. You and your soup. Will you need some time alone with this soup?" Dean teased, gently smoothing the damp cloth along Sam's temple and soaking the worst of the dirt from the shallow scrapes on his cheek. Rinsing the cloth, he was forced to scrub a little more roughly to actually cleanse the area and Sam pushed back with a wince and a huffed inhale.

"Sorry, Sammy. I'm trying to be easy, but I have to clean out the cut."

Sam opened his eyes and captured Dean among the rocking waves, "It's 'k, Dean. It's okay," he mumbled, patting Dean on the knee.

Dean reached forward again and cleansed the wound carefully and Sam remained still, his eyes favoring his brother's face. Turning back to the first aid kit, Dean passed over the alcohol and pulled out the antibiotic cream to soothe over Sam's skin. The cream would kill any pathogens lingering in the grazes and it wouldn't sting as much.

Occasionally catching Sam's gaze as he unwaveringly watched Dean work, Dean felt a little peace settle over him and Sam's muscles slowly uncoiled under his touch.

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Sam's fever made him feel lethargic and though he had felt vulnerable for showing weakness in front of his brother, he more or less cooperated now as Dean tugged the damp t-shirt over his head. His eyes drooped closed but every few breaths they would open and seek out Dean's face in the lamplight.

The bed seemed to rock under his weight, making him feel like a buoy riding the waves, accentuating the ever-present lonesomeness that had pulled on him since Jess' death. The only points of stability in the storm were Dean's calm cool hands washing away his pain and loneliness. He was slowly reminded of the calm and cool and confidence that he had always associated with his brother. He felt a small glimmer of hope that he might be able to ride out this endless storm.

"Where does it hurt, Sam? Where's the worst of it?" Dean asked quietly, pulling his hands away.

Queasiness waved through his body, as Sam focused on his aches and pains. The thick branches of the tree had slammed his body between them, leaving deep aches across his abdomen and arm. Sam shifted restlessly, unable to find a comfortable position.

"Sammy?" Dean prompted.

"Uhhh, my side… and my arm. Not broken. I'm okay," Sam grunted as Dean's steady hands found his tender aches.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean whispered on the waves.

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Dean explored the bruises crossing Sam's abdomen and ribs as gently as he could. Hot flesh yielded to his fingertips but the underlying bone stayed strong. Steeling himself, he ignored Sam's squirming and pushed a little deeper along Sam's lower torso. Sam gripped uncomfortably at the comforter and then up Dean's thigh, but he didn't push Dean away. With a breath of relief, Dean nodded, unable to feel any distinctive rigidity along the abdominal wall that would reveal internal bleeding.

Taking a breath and consciously steadying his hand, Dean moved to Sam's arm and palpated the bruising running along the bicep. Sam huffed, but didn't pull away in the pain that would accompany an underlying break.

"Still dizzy, Sammy?" Dean asked, studying Sam's clenched face.

"Yeah," Sam breathed out, restlessly lolling his head on the pillow. "And cold."

"You eat today?"

"Na'h… didn't feel so good," Sam mumbled. Then his lip quirked up. "Could probably eat some soup, though."

"Ha." Dean snorted. "You're a riot. Here's what we're going to do, Sam. I'm going to get you some ice for your stomach and you need to leave it on until I get back with your soup. Deal?"

"I don't want ice. Too cold," Sam protested.

_Surprise, surprise_, Dean thought. Sammy always did have an ice aversion. He grabbed the bucket and stepped outside to fill it anyway. Coming back in, he wrapped it in one of the already damp cloths.

Sam cracked his lids and watched him. "Jess never made me use ice."

Dean gritted his teeth at that one. Taking care of a sick Sam had always been hard enough. Competing with an idyllic memory was just about impossible.

"Well, Sam, I need you to do it anyway. It'll keep the swelling down and stop any residual bruising." Then, if Sam could go for the low blows, the so could Dean: "Trust me?"

Sam nodded without hesitation and Dean carefully laid the towel across Sam's abdomen. Sam's face screwed up and he sucked in his breath as the weight settled on his tender stomach, but then he eased slightly and blew it out slowly through his mouth.

Dean pulled the comforter from his own bed, tossed it over Sam's prone form and breathed with him. "Leave the ice on, Sam. I'm going to go across to the diner and get some soup. If I'm not back in ten minutes, take it off, but leave it on for at least ten, you hear me?" He waited to see Sam's mop nod and then grabbed his jacket and scooted out of the room. Just as the door was closing heard Sam call.

He poked his head back in. "What, Sam?"

"Chicken soup. With the big noodles."

Dean chuckled. "I'll see what I can do."

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Just over ten minutes later Dean stealthily entered the room armed with a container of chicken noodle soup. Setting the soup down, he expected to see Sam passed out on the bed. Instead, it seemed that he had yet to settle and was still shifting restlessly upon the mattress. He did notice that the ice had been abandoned on the floor and he wondered how much of the ten minutes it had actually spent on Sam's injuries.

"Can't sleep, Sam?" he called.

"I can't get off this damn boat. See it every time I close my eyes," Sam groused.

Dean helped Sam sit up against the headboard, not liking the heat that still poured off his brother.

"Eat some soup and I'll get you some more water." He made sure that Sam had a firm hold on the soup container and spoon and went to fish out some Tylenol, wishing he had some of the PM stuff.

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Despite his fever, Sam actually made pretty quick work of the soup, feeling hungrier than he had in the last couple of days. After eating his fill, he passed the container to Dean, swallowed the Tylenol he offered, and downed enough water to make Dean nod approvingly at him.

Sliding back into bed he moaned quietly. Even with a full belly and some hydration, the bed still swayed under him. He took a deep breath, resigning himself to a sleepless night alone at sea.

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Watching Sam fidget restlessly, Dean played back their earlier conversation. Sam was always the touchy feely type and based on childhood experience, he might actually settle with a gentle back rub.

"Fuck me," Dean mumbled to himself, shedding his jacket and shoes and making his way over to the bed.

Dean slid onto the bed beside his brother, leaning back against the headboard and watching Sam cautiously, alert for any sign that he was getting too close for comfort. _This was too weird_. Slowly and quietly, however, Sam rolled closer to him and practically curled into his side.

Letting out a slow breath, Dean dropped his hand along his brother's back, smoothing the t-shirt across his warm shoulders. _Huh. Not too weird after all_, he admitted to himself.

"Better?" He asked quietly, moving his hand rhythmically along Sam's tense back, feeling both his and Sam's tension slowly ease as Sam settled.

"Better," came the mumbled reply.

"You just better not get me sick, dude," Dean gruffly warned as he continued his gentle caress with one hand and reached the other for the remote.

Meanwhile, under his brother's steady hand, Sam settled, finally finding his port in the storm.


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